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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25698271">The Art of Forging Wine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear'>D20Owlbear</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag'>sevdrag (seventhe)</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/seventhe'>seventhe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Robin Hood Fusion, An AU of an AU, Anathema is from Louisiana, Aziraphale is a bastard, Aziraphale is besotted in face of them, Aziraphale is still English tho, Aziraphale says trans rights, Aziraphale's glitter stick, Crowley and Anathema are partners in crime, Crowley and Aziraphale say fuck the system, Crowley gets up to shenanigans, Crowley is French, Crowley is trans (Good Omens), Crowley loves the sea and the stars, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay For You, Gen, Human AU, Kisses Bingo 2020, LITERALLY, M/M, Morning After, Multiple Orgasms, Newt is nervous probably, No beta we fall like Crowley, Saltziraphale ftw!, Sort Of, The Inherent Eroticism of Passing Wine to Your Hereditary Enemy, Trans Character, also for Crowley's desperate thrill-chasing, as the kids say, brought to you by the feral table server, canon level drinking in a human AU, delightfully impaired decision making at some point I'm sure, free range dumb gays, how can someone so clever be so stupid, i made you beans on toast and fell in love, maybe a heist, moron4moron, not really - Freeform, one very long very terrible bingo fill, rated E for an Emergence of Wine Stories, the inherent eroticism of wrist kisses and the waltz, there are pirates probably at some point, there's too many metaphors in here most certainly, they're both idiots, wine cwime, wine forgery</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:02:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,828</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25698271</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/seventhe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale is a connoisseur of old things, especially older wines. He teaches classes and confirms frauds where he must to keep customers out of his bookshop.</p><p>Crowley, on the other hand, is a fraud of the highest degree. In that he devoutly loves parting rich fools who don't know the difference between a 2012 box wine and an 1893 pinot and their money with quite a bit of forged old wine.</p><p>A story told non-linearly in snippets and snapshots of the lives of two men.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically, Kisses Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Present: Sparkling Rosé</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sev and I are terrible goblins and have latched onto <a href="https://kvothbloodless.tumblr.com/post/624361210032308224">this post</a> about forging wine. I like wine, Sev likes wine, it's a whole problem. </p><p>Thank you to the feral server who abjectly encouraged us, and also thank you Sev for trying out this very weird, non-linear, jumping around sort of style with me in 1.5k words each or less.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>When tasting wines: lighter sparkling wines come before, most normal wines during, sweeter and thicker wines at the end. A sparkling rosé is certainly light on the palate. </p><p>Prompt: deep kisses / gentle shoulder bump</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale took his time in delicately plucking his little round glasses from the bridge of his nose, carefully flicking the arms in with tiny deft movements and then very carefully and specifically setting them down on the table top with a very small and satisfying click. </p><p>“Well,” he said, flicking his gaze between the three men standing before him. “I have good news, and I have bad.”</p><p>“Good news first,” Gabriel said, crossing his arms over his chest. He was giving Aziraphale some sort of <em>look</em> that probably meant something to a person who could read social cues. Since Aziraphale made a general policy of not bothering, he felt absolutely free to ignore it.</p><p>“The good news is that I can clearly detect the kind of notes you expect from an older wine,” Aziraphale began. He picked up the glass in front of him, swirling the liquid gently. “It’s very vegetal. Asparagus and peppers, mostly, and a wooden taste I believe has to be leeched from the cork over time. It has to be older than 1960, at the very least.”</p><p>The man in the middle - the one whose case, pardon the pun, was currently being investigated - brightened. “Oh, so it’s real, then?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale said in the tone of voice that meant he really wasn’t very sorry at all. “That was the good news.”</p><p>The man’s shoulders sagged and Aziraphale hastily swallowed his desire to laugh. It wasn’t that there was anything particularly funny in the case of a man sold counterfeit goods, but Aziraphale was so <em>very</em> tired of wine snobs being taken in over old wines that weren’t even pleasant to <em>consume.</em> What on earth was a wine this old worth anyway? Bragging rights? The rich bastard deserved to be pranked, in his opinion.</p><p>His opinion, however, didn’t pay the bills; his palate did. “The bad news is that I have tasted this combination before, and I am fairly sure that it’s a 1951 Bordeaux, mixed with some swill that’s probably about ten years old. ‘51 was a <em>terrible</em> year for the Bordeaux, you see, so it’s somewhat easy to come by old cases — if you know where to look, that is.”</p><p>“And I’m sure wine forgers all know where to look,” said Sandalphon, Gabriel’s somewhat repellent partner. He had the despicable habit of saying things in an intonation that made them sound prophetic, except that when one thought through the sentences, they were nothing but the most common drivel.</p><p>“Never you mind,” Aziraphale said. He was afraid a little bit too much of his <em>opinion</em> carried across on his voice. “My point is, it is absolutely not the 1923 Chateau Margaux, I am terribly sorry to tell you.” </p><p>“Azira— Mister Fell,” Gabriel started. “Are you absolutely confident?”</p><p>Aziraphale glanced up without raising his head, so that he ended up looking at Gabriel from under his lashes, in a manner he hoped carried all of his absolute disdain for the man. Rather than saying anything, he reached out for the glass again, and without breaking his gaze he lifted the glass to his mouth and took a very long drink. </p><p><em>A deep kiss to the wine glass,</em> Aziraphale liked to tell his students when he was lecturing. <em>A long pull. </em>He was somewhat rewarded by the disgusted look that crossed Gabriel’s face, so he made the extra effort of sucking at the rim of the glass before pulling away.</p><p>“I will never know,” Gabriel said, the shudder of revulsion very audible in his voice, “why you consume… <em>that.</em>”</p><p>‘Why, Lieutenant Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, with just the right note of shock. “It’s my <em>job.</em>”</p><p>And it was: forgeries of the higher echelons of society were Aziraphale’s expertise, because he was good at it but also because the bookshop he dabbled in was not exactly profitable. Wines, documents, handwriting: Aziraphale had made a study of all of it, fascinated by the details, the small pieces, the puzzle of it. </p><p>With reluctance, Aziraphale turned his gaze back to the client. “Why on earth did you purchase this? The 1923 Margaux is worth nearly a thousand pounds, my boy—over a thousand American dollars—and you bought four cases of it. For far too much. What on earth were you going to do with it?”</p><p>The client’s face went dark, and Gabriel’s face made this pinching motion Aziraphale really liked. </p><p>“That’s enough,” said Sandalphon. “As usual, Aziraphale, thank you for the expert opinion.”</p><p>“Thank you for your business,” Aziraphale replied, plucking his glasses from the desk and placing them securely into the pocket of his waistcoat. “You shall receive the bill on my usual timetable. I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” he added, addressing the poor client—head hanging low—and Gabriel’s facade went extra terrible as Aziraphale stood and walked out the door.</p>
<hr/><p>It was hot, blisteringly so, out here on the ocean in a small-scale motorboat not meant for more than a quick jaunt off the coast. The sun sparkled like a mirage off the gently roiling water and the depths below remained hidden from sight, even with the illusion of clear, clean waters. Crowley shifted in his seat at the bow and draped himself over the front, just a bit, to catch some of the seafoam spray off the skipping boat with his fingertips; though most of it would be churned up behind them in their wake, there was still something blissful about feeling the salt crust over your skin with the sun bright and hot above and the water cool and tantalizing like a siren's song below. </p><p>The wind caught and tugged at his unbound hair, sure to leave it a mess and his old, linen shirt just barely enough to keep the direct sunlight off his skin. As much as he loved the heat, he'd burn in seconds flat without copious amounts of sunscreen—which his legs, hands, and face were smothered in as the only uncovered parts of him—and would freckle like none other until he was an ungodly mess of red, pale, and freckle-heavy blotches. Plus, there was always something just a little exciting to feel the wind whip through thin cotton and tug at the seams of clothing as if it would tear you apart as soon as gentle; it tasted a lot like the adventure that Crowley craved in a time and society where adventure wasn't meant to be more than a child's game. </p><p>This - the boat and the expeditions and the half-cocked adventure - were what Crowley loved the most. Anathema was at the helm of the boat and had the old sailor's map transparency over the modern one and he could hear the blip of the radar they'd hauled on board and outfitted the old thing with as soon as they were able to buy the rental ship outright. Which mostly just meant, at this point, that they could usurp any waiting list to take it out and Anathema could captain it herself, rather than officially renting it each time they wanted to go out. <em>Device Rentals and Tours</em> owned the skiff it was harbored in and didn't charge them for it in exchange for usage of the boat for deep-sea dives, much like what they were going to use it for now.</p><p>The engine cut off and quieted, prompting Crowley to stand up and wobble off the bow of the boat, where he'd beel sunning himself for nearly the whole trip. He was the diver, not the driver, that was their agreement. While Crowley himself didn't much like small spaces or dark ones, somehow the ocean was different. Deep underneath, finding sunken ships and their unusual treasures, there was a whole other world to explore, vast and limitless with a weightless pressure from all sides that felt quite a lot like what Crowley imagined space to feel like.</p><p>"Dropping anchor!" Anathema warned from the cabin, crossing over to the thick cable and anchor that'd keep them more or less in one space. Crowley would have a reel of guideline snapped onto his suit harness and a handful of reflective markers to put down in case of murky water or a particularly precarious wreck. Luckily they hadn't had to learn anything the hard way about all of it, but there had been some close calls in the past neither of them much liked thinking about.</p><p>"Aye, aye, mon capitaine!" Crowley sloppily saluted and leaned against the door to the cabin to brace for the wobble of the boat before kneeling to open up a locker with all his gear. It'd been meticulously checked, checked again, and checked off on a list to make sure there were no punctures or any weaknesses in any of the gear. Technically, deep-sea diving was always a danger, but with experience, know-how, and careful planning it wasn't much worse than anything else that put one at the mercy of the weather. </p><p>Suiting up was akin to meditating for Crowley: he'd never managed it outside of a massage table or underwater otherwise, couldn't ever get his thoughts to stand still or even all crowd onto the same train tracks and go just the one way. But here, there was a creeping shot of adrenaline that made his hands shake—just like always, just a little bit—and turned every gear and cog in his head towards checking <em>one more time</em> that everything was alright and whole and as it should be.</p><p>Anathema did the same with his oxygen tank and tubes and mask, just like she always did. Crowley didn't envy her, stuck up here alone and worrying, unable to do much to help other than watch the boat and the reel. They'd been friends for almost a decade now, ever since she barged into his coat closet of an office with a name no one really knew at the time and demanded to be let in on his "<em>Antique and Rare Wines and Spirits</em>" escapade at the ripe age of fresh-out-of-college. And then, armed to the teeth with social media influencing and an old book of recipes—that were half-prophetic Crowley swore sometimes, to which she'd only ever smile—business boomed until they were successful enough to do it full time. </p><p>She held up the harness for Crowley to slip into and buckle up on his front, strapped down and tied tight enough to feel <em>safe</em> but loose enough to breathe in. Once he was in the water it'd loosen just a little bit and he'd have to fiddle to make sure it fit exactly as he liked, but close enough was close enough. The tank went on, flippers in hand to put on right before he flung himself free of the boat, reel line connected to buoy that was connected to Anathema's choice of helm or railing, and Crowley was ready to go.</p><p>He took a breath, slow and long, of the air he'd be giving up for however long, and flicked the waterproof gps tracker on his suit that would easily ping off on the radar they had. Crowley getting stuck or lost somewhere was one of their biggest fears, more so than any wreck already being plundered or inhabitants of the ocean could be. </p><p>"Come on," Crowley chuckled, bumping his shoulder into Anathema's, grinning at her mock sneer as she smacked his arm, "We'll be good. We've got all day, enjoy your book or whatever. Nerd."</p><p>"It's a transcription of that old journal you found in that lockbox a few years ago, they just sent me a pdf of it." Anathema shot back smugly, "I'll tell you if your find was any good."</p><p>"Better hope it's juicy, otherwise I don't wanna hear it. The way you read <em>boat charts</em> you'd think they were erotic." Crowley snorted and rolled his eyes and shoving on his mask.</p><p>"Seeya soon!" Crowley flopped into the water smoothly, before Anathema could retaliate verbally, and immediately regretted not making more of a splash to get Anathema's feet and the hem of her trousers wet. Oh well, next time, they still had two other places to try to visit if this wasn't where the ship had been carried after sinking. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Present: Pinot Noir</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A Pinot Noir is the "first" wine for meals and courses. You want to have Pinot before your palate gets confused.</p><p>Prompt: cheek kisses / wiping away tears</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley wasn't more than eighteen when he'd seen an angel. Not literally of course — or, well, probably not. His opinion on it changed daily and depended on his mood, the weather, what the DOW was like, and whether or not he was sober. But the one thing that never changed was the fact that he could remember it in perfect clarity, drunk off his tits or not.</p><p>It'd been his first Pride, when it was just a little less safe but he'd needed it quite a lot more. Before he looked like he was comfortable with himself and before he'd had the balls to come out to anyone other than strangers. It was his first Pride, right there in Soho in the 80s, and so many things were happening. Further decriminalizations across the board, openly out politicians, and "Children who need to be taught to respect traditional moral values are being taught that they have an inalienable right to be gay." It wasn't perfect — Crowley was careful not to think about just how very not perfect it was — but this is where they were.</p><p>It was amazing, it was freeing, and Crowley had never felt so free and on top of the world. Except it'd been like being drenched in a bucketful of freezing water, half slush, and gripping icy fingers down his spine. There were people who didn't ‘approve,’ and they made nuisances of themselves — and there were a few souls who had the spine to stand up to it. Crowley had always been the type who was had by his nerves rather than the other way around, and he wasn't <em>out,</em> not as "he," not in places he could be recognized, never for longer than a handful of hours at a time before he broke a rib tamping down on all the things he hated seeing on himself.</p><p>But then the angel of Soho came in, sword swinging and eyes practically flaming. True, there wasn't <em>really</em> a sword, no real weapons, but he'd always imagined the guy deserved one. Wrapped up like a vintage thing, Crowley remembered those details very clearly: the old coat and bowtie and polished oxfords and well-loved waistcoat, cowing would-be instigators into fleeing.</p><p>He'd seen the angel one other time, later that year in some bar in Soho, hidden away and half-decrepit. Not anything meant for parties and drawing crowds, and at a glance, he was the youngest thing in there, but that was alright, he hadn't wanted to see anyone celebrate anything.</p><p>Drinking like an old lush, he had racked up a stunning amount of pints and wept alone in the corner. For a lot of things he barely remembered anymore: for life, for love, for all the rage in his heart that only felt like weary sadness at this point. And then an angel sat next to him at the end of the bar. Didn't say anything or acknowledge him past that, not until he was a drink in himself — when he gripped Crowley’s shoulder tight.</p><p>Crowley remembered how he shook, just a little, and broke down sobbing at the bar after too many drinks like a bad stereotype. He remembered being shushed soothingly and the strong hand on his shoulder helping him stay upright and eventually swinging his scrawny arse around on the stool and cupping his face to wipe away his tears as he babbled around snot and tears to a stranger.</p><p>And then he was cried out and it was over and he recognized the angel from Pride that year and curled in on himself even more miserable than before. He'd never felt like such a kid in the face of someone; he'd seemed timeless and ancient at the time (for all that looking back on the memory revealed that the angel was likely less than a decade older than him). But at the time it had been intensely embarrassing.</p><p>Crowley hadn't ever really been in love before that, or ever since. But that was alright, if he had to lose his heart never to be found again, he was glad it was to an angel that could keep it safe. So he put the sword the angel was meant to have on the back of his calf to strengthen his steps and temper his march and remind him that whatever pride he had was off the backs of those who paid it forward and as much of a coward he used to be — and still was — he still owed it to every young queer in the world to flame just as brightly as he liked, everyone else be damned.</p><p>"Yeah," Crowley grumbled, shoving at Aziraphale on the other side of the couch with his foot, "An' that's how I got the tattoo. Next day after that, stopped drinkin' for a bit 'till I could afford it done and yeah…" Aziraphale just <em>snrk</em>'ed a laugh and picked up his glass of pretty-damn-good-thank-you box wine and reached for his pint of sorbet half-melted on the coffee table.</p><p>"<em>You</em>," he declared imperiously, "Need a boyfriend." And then laughed again when Crowley pushed at his shoulder with his other foot, which had been draped across the back of the couch. Crowley stilled for a moment, processing Aziraphale's words and swallowed heavily, and pretended to take a long drink of wine.</p><p>He choked when the wine fell down his throat and into his lungs, shooting up into a sitting position and coughing as the thought occurred to him; <em>Was he volunteering?!</em> A firm pat on his back — like the kind you managed to do when your friends were choking on something — made him cough again and his throat was raw and hurt.</p><p>"I– uh, sorry. Thanks…" Crowley rasped and looked up at Aziraphale's eyes, which met his in concern. <em>No, no he couldn't be. He wouldn't want to kiss me, definitely not, he barely even looks at me most days unless I've got wine in hand. </em>That was the whole point of it, really. He'd gone and gotten twitterpated the moment Aziraphale had looked at him and been utterly unimpressed until he'd been shown the wine and tasted it. Until he'd seen the fruits of Crowley's labor and endless searching and his silver tongue and approved.</p><p>"You know, my dear," Aziraphale hummed, his hand didn't move from Crowley's back and the weight was as heavy as Atlas' burden, even if Crowley loved it far more dearly than Atlas could his. "That reminds me a little of my old stomping grounds, a queer space right off the usual route Pride took for a while, a little hole in the wall."</p><p>Aziraphale's gaze never left Crowley's, holding him entranced, and he swayed back at the last second before doing something so utterly stupid as kissing him. "Ye– yeah, that'd be. Uh, cool, probably, to visit."</p><p>"Oh, you think?" Aziraphale murmured, his hand fell and Crowley felt like he'd lost something there, a chance maybe. "Perhaps, one day, I could take you. If you like, I mean…"</p><p>"Yeah. I'd like that, an– Aziraphale, I'd like that."</p>
<hr/><p>Crowley didn’t recognize this bar. At some point in his youth, he thought he’d been dragged to every gay bar within a fifty-kilometer radius, but apparently not; maybe this was a new one? But the bouncer greeted Aziraphale as if they were long-lost brothers, and Aziraphale couldn’t be that much older, so—Crowley shrugged, and nodded at the bouncer’s inquiring look as he followed Aziraphale inside.</p><p>Surprisingly crowded; Crowley clocked a dance floor over to the left, the same spiraling rainbow lights every place had these days, and an area to the right that looked like pool tables and arcade games. Aziraphale strode through with confidence, straight ahead towards the back, and Crowley followed obediently.</p><p>He certainly wasn’t expecting the <em>huge</em> cry when they walked through the entryway to the back room. For a minute it was overwhelming—strange voices yelling, the thumping of the dance floor music, nowhere safe or familiar nearby—and then Aziraphale had grabbed his hand to pull him forwards into the crowd. <em>Into the crowd</em> would have been a terrifying proposition, except that once Aziraphale’s fingers had interlaced with his, Crowley had lost nearly all of the panic that had flared up inside him.</p><p>“She’s here!” One of the bartenders yelled, and Crowley watched as Aziraphale blushed from his temples down to his neck. “Our Lady of the Faith, Ezzie, our guardian angel!” The crowd cheered again, and Crowley’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Aziraphale with new purpose; he was <em>famous</em>, here, within this little room packed with people.</p><p>Aziraphale tried to wave it off, but they were propelled by a number of hands (most of them friendly, although Crowley did catch some cheeky bugger taking a grab at Aziraphale’s arse, and that was very much his, please and thank you) up to the bar. Aziraphale tugged Crowley in, making a shelter for him out of his broad shoulders, and grinned sort-of apologetically.</p><p>“You wanted to see what I was like in the old days,” he told Crowley, still sounding prim as if this were actually Crowley’s fault. The shrug and the grin both went crooked. “Here you are.”</p><p>“Ezzie!” The bartender announced his presence loudly, slamming two shot glasses down onto the bar. “And you’ve brought yourself some candy, I see! Here’s your normal, it’s on the house.” The man — burly, great dark curly beard, a number of gold hoops in his ears — winked at Crowley and then vanished.</p><p>“Normal?” Crowley tried to catch his own voice in his throat; it worked, mostly. “How often are you here?”</p><p>Aziraphale’s smile was a bit secretive as he slid the shot glass over to Crowley. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he murmurs, lips pressed to the rim in a way Crowley could have only called <em>provocative.</em> “Once they know you, they know you. Cheers.”</p><p>Crowley had to pause a moment to watch as Aziraphale’s head tipped back—his throat worked—and he was licking his lips as he set the glass back down onto the bar. Crowley immediately tossed his own shot back as a distraction because that was just <em>too much.</em></p><p>Then there were two ladies—lady-presenting people, Crowley thought, dimly—pressing up around them both. “Ezzie, darling,” the one said, leaning in; they kissed each other on the cheek. “Glad you could make it out to celebrate with us. Who’s the dish?”</p><p>“Oh,” Aziraphale said, flushed and pleased. “This here is my friend, Anthony Crowley.”</p><p>“Friend,” the one sighed wistfully. The other one pinched Crowley’s arse.</p><p>“Oi!” He yelled, surprised, and the ladies tittered in laughter.</p><p>“You know what the rules are, Ezzie,” the first said, reaching into their purse and rummaging around. “It’s Pride Week. All you elders <em>owe</em> us, you know.”</p><p>“Right, right,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head but looking inordinately pleased nonetheless. “What’s it to be this time?”</p><p>“Purple,” said the first, brandishing a tube of lipstick.</p><p>“And glitter,” announced the second, pulling something else out from their pocket.</p><p>Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley, winked, and then wiggled in pleasure. “If you must,” he sighed, but there was real anticipation in his eyes.</p><p>And Crowley watched, eyes desperately trying not to fall out of his face, as the two ladies carefully applied a brilliant violet lipstick to Aziraphale’s mouth, followed by a generous layer of some sort of glitter that sparkled iridescent under the lights.</p><p>“Well?” Aziraphale turned to Crowley when it was done, and Crowley considered falling out of his chair. “What do you think?”</p><p><em>I want to smear it all over your face,</em> Crowley thought. <em>With my face.</em></p><p>“It suits you,” Crowley said aloud.</p><p>“Well, then,” said Aziraphale, and he leaned in until he was pressing those glossy rich lips to Crowley’s cheek. “You can be the first, my darling,” he murmured, pulling away. Crowley lifted a hand but couldn’t bring himself to touch the spot; he could feel the layer of gloss on his skin, plasticky in a strange way that wasn’t necessarily bad. He wondered whether any color had transferred.</p><p>“Ngk,” he managed to say.</p><p>Then Aziraphale reached out to give the two ladies perfunctory kisses on both of their cheeks. Crowley noticed they were far less gentle and sensual than the one he’d received. Then he decided he wanted to throw his entire head into the bin for being sentimental. Both kisses left the shadow of an outline, the faintest hint of purple.</p><p>“Alright then!” The bartender boomed behind them. Two more drinks were slammed onto the bartop. Crowley had no idea what they were; it was a pint glass, the bottom layer a reddish pink and the top layer bright blue. In this light it could have possibly resembled the bisexual pride flag, and Crowley decided he could absolutely manage to deal with that. “Ezzie’s here to treat you all! Line up, youngsters!”</p><p>“You see,” Aziraphale started to explain, leaning into Crowley. “For some of these people, it’s been so very long since they’ve had a kind word and a kind touch, so those of us who have been here for a while and don’t mind it come around each year to—”</p><p>He swiveled around in his seat, reaching out to the nearest person crowding around his barstool, and gently took their face in his hands. “Here you are, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and planted a big smacking kiss on their cheek.</p><p>Crowley watched. He saw people that reminded him of himself, teenaged and so very stupid, absolutely uncomfortable in the skin he’d been given and bleeding with it; he saw people who were confident, happy, who returned the cheek kiss and a few words of joy. He saw kids so young they’d obviously taken fake ID; he saw two ladies, old enough to be using canes, swarm in on Aziraphale and buss both cheeks at the same time. He saw ladies and men, femme and masc, and a delightful assortment of people expressing themselves as <em>people,</em> and Aziraphale welcomed them all with a kiss on the cheek like it was some sort of initiation into happiness.</p><p>They approached excitedly, apprehensively, nervously; they left carrying peace, and joy, and goodwill. Everyone looked lighter when they left. And in the middle of all of it was Aziraphale, beaming like an actual goddamned angel, with enough gentle touches and (hastily reapplied) lip gloss to kiss every cheek that wanted it; Aziraphale, who apparently had done this so many times he was a regular.</p><p>Crowley saw a kid approach and was immediately reminded of himself: generic t-shirt, probably a bad binder; tight jeans full of holes and snags. The kid looked like they were on the verge of tears, a bit shaken, a bit unsure. Aziraphale took one look at them and opened his arms, big, like wings—offering but not demanding—and the kid folded themself into Aziraphale, suddenly sobbing, as Aziraphale cupped their head and murmured into their ear.</p><p>Crowley suddenly couldn’t watch anymore. His throat was tight with something that wasn’t tears—must just be dry. He drank half of the bisexual drink in one gulp, in retaliation for making him have feelings.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A "present" chapter.</p><p>The previous chapter has been edited to be "past," and this story will have 3 distinct chapter types (past, present, and future). Each of these has multiple moving parts within them and we have our timeline planned out, but as said before this story is highly non-linear and we'll be moving back and forth within the(ir) timeline.</p><p>If you have any questions or have trouble figuring out where something sits in relation to something else, please let us know!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Present: Tawny Port</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A port is a wine meant to be the "dessert after the dessert," a warm fortified drink to be sipped and enjoyed to finish off a meal and punctuates the end of one activity and the beginning of another.</p><p>prompt: wrist kisses / bridal carry</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>All of this has been an attempt for Sevdrag and myself to write more concisely, so our challenge is to each write around 1.5k (for a total of 3k or less) a chapter... this went a little over but neither of us are sorry 'cause it needed it. Cutting this chapter 1k shorter would do it a disservice.</p><p>Also, Crowley and Aziraphale both say trans rights, we don't make the rules. You're valid no matter what surgeries you do or don't want or how you do or don't want to present or adhere or not to gender norms physically.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I found this port in the back of a little shop in Morocco,” Crowley said. “I guess it had been seized at a harbor, or something — my Amazigh is nonexistent and my Arabic’s not much better — but I managed to get my hands on it. Probably overpaid, but it was for my personal collection. Not for sale.” The <em>s</em> in the word was a bit of a hiss, and Aziraphale wondered whether Crowley knew just how much he gave away when they were talking like this: casual, friendly, loose and drunk.</p><p>“Well, my dear,” he said. “Thank you very much for deciding to share your <em>personal collection</em> with me. You must have <em>quite</em> a stash.”</p><p>“Oh, angel,” Crowley said, flinging himself back into the chair he had commandeered with his angles and elbows. He leered over the top of his sunglasses and gave Aziraphale a bawdy wink. “You have no idea.”</p><p>Aziraphale, not to be overdone, took a very long sip. “You’d be surprised, my dear. I did live in Soho.”</p><p>The port was rich with currants and chocolate, maybe some caramel, riding over that rich grape depth that forms the base of a good port. He surreptitiously checked the label on the bottle, and yes, it did taste like a 40-year old port. This one, at least, was a genuine find, and Aziraphale found himself doubly honored that Crowley would share.</p><p>Crowley raised a wicked eyebrow at Aziraphale and smirked widely. "What, Soho, you? If you're all buttoned up in <em>Soho</em> what could your stash be? A moving box filled with dildos and sex aids?" The Frenchman snorted to himself and Aziraphale marveled at how crude he could be and still sound so suave. Well… when he wasn't trying, at least. Crowley in any way attempting to look cool or be charming seemed to be a recipe for disaster — luckily the nervous man was wildly endearing for reasons Aziraphale couldn't ever seem to put his finger on.</p><p>"I believe they're called personal massagers and are stored in my sex box, Crowley. As the kids say, of course." Aziraphale smiled, eyes twinkling as he met Crowley's gaze over the top of his glass.</p><p>Crowley rolled his eyes at Aziraphale, very obviously so; if Aziraphale were the type to take offense at Crowley's attitude, they surely wouldn't have made such fast friends as they did. His mirth died down into something more comfortable and pleasantly lazy. As much as he enjoyed their banter, Aziraphale also well loved that they could simply sit and exist together as well without any of the terrible trappings of small talk and social expectations</p><p>Crowley stood up suddenly from his chair and swayed over to his old boombox, clicked in a cassette, and Aziraphale groaned as bebop began playing. Of course, he wasn't particularly adverse to bebop, but the 40's jazz was often far more upbeat and complex sounding than he preferred listening to for relaxation.</p><p>"Oh, Crowley!" He huffed and took another sip of his port, finishing the glass and setting it down.</p><p>"C'mon, angel!" Crowley crowed back, arms akimbo and his face wide and bright and open. The man was a picture and Aziraphale found himself secretly glad that this sort of openness was saved for private, for him. He did his best to hide a smile when Crowley waved his hips in a poor, half-drunk imitation of dance, pretending to lasso Aziraphale to get him to stand.</p><p>"No, Crowley, I don't dance…" Aziraphale let his smile slip out, sly and far more charmed than he'd like to admit. "And neither do you, apparently."</p><p>Crowley rolled his eyes openly at Aziraphale once more and took a moment to pull his sunglasses off his face and toss them gently to the table at the base of the boombox. Aziraphale's breath caught in his chest before rushing out of him like he'd been punched. He'd seen Crowley's eyes before but never quite like this, somehow it was <em>more</em> than usual. But what that more was… was a bit ineffable; he couldn't put it into words.</p><p>Crowley stopped the tape and the sudden silence after the upbeat jazz was deafening. And then, soft strains of music came from Crowley's phone, which he turned up and let run for a few moments before turning his hand over and extending it to Aziraphale.</p><p>"Waldteufel? really my dear, we've got to do something about how utterly French you are." Aziraphale smiled indulgently, wiggling in his seat just a little at the enjoyable strains of a waltz. "And you must know I don't know how to <em>waltz</em> any more than any other dance."</p><p>"Well then." Crowley's smirk was mirthful and mischievous and his accent thicker on purpose, Aziraphale could just tell. "Time to rid you of how utterly boring and English you are. I'll teach you, it's easy, just four steps… come on." The last was an entreaty if Aziraphale had ever heard one, and so genuine he simply couldn't seem to deny him a third time and break whatever spell there was here.</p><p>He set his hand in Crowley's and... instead of pulling him up with it, Crowley surprised him and bent over at the waist, kissing the air scant millimeters away from his knuckles, so close he could imagine the feel of lips on his skin. His breath stuck in his throat and Crowley flipped his hand over, and tenderly kissed the underside of his wrist.</p><p>Their eyes met, and Aziraphale had never felt fire in his veins like this before: as if he were some ancient volcano god with magma in his heart rather than blood.</p><p>Aziraphale stood and felt like he was moving through golden syrup, but he'd never felt so sure of himself as in this moment. Crowley still had a hold of his hand and stood back up, taking a half-step back to make room for Aziraphale.</p><p>He reached out with his free hand and took Crowley by the elbow, coaxing him in closer, and leaned in until his face was only centimeters from Crowley's. They breathed for a moment, in and out with the swell and fall of the tides, and Crowley looked up to meet Aziraphale's eyes. And in that moment, Aziraphale realized just how lost he was. He walked Crowley back until the man's shoulders hit the wall, each of their steps in perfect time, and if he'd been willing to think of anything but the way Crowley felt in his hands or how desperately he wanted the searing heat of the lanky man pressed up against the line of his body, Aziraphale might have spared a laugh for their improvised waltz.</p><p>No wonder waltzes had been thought of as racy for so long.</p><p>Crowley was against the wall and Aziraphale leaned in once more, just a little further, until the electricity of their bodies lingered between their lips and he could <em>feel</em> the whine build up in the back of Crowley's throat. Crowley's hand wrapped around his and squeezed, pulling him closer, but Aziraphale simply let his arm move rather than the rest of him, thwarting Crowley's attempt.</p><p>"I would like to kiss you, my dear." Aziraphale's eyes blinked up from where they stared at Crowley's lips to meet his eyes, their bright honey-amber darkened by pupils blown wide. He felt Crowley's chest expand as he inhaled; felt the warmth of his breath on the exhale.</p><p>"Y– yes, of cour– fuck, angel," Crowley stuttered, wide-eyed and shaking, and Aziraphale took pity and connected their lips in a kiss. Dry and chaste at first, just a press of flesh on flesh that quickly sparked the dry kindling inside the both of them, leaving them as a roaring wildfire.</p><p>Crowley moaned and Aizraphale answered, the tip of his tongue pressing gently at the seam of Crowley's lips, to which Crowley responded with an enthusiastic groan and answered the question with tongue of his own. Aziraphale liked kissing; the sheer number of nerve endings in the mouth and lips meant it was utterly pleasurable. Humans first learned to explore their world with their mouths and Aziraphale had never been accused of <em>not</em> having a bit of an oral fixation.</p><p>Crowley kissed with all the desperation of a drowning man, clinging to the shoulders of Aziraphale's sweater vest and leaning his weight on Aziraphale, who was particularly thrilled to be thought of and trusted so well, to be considered sturdy in ways that meant strength rather than simply space being taken up. And while he never much minded what others thought about his looks — he was happy with his body how it was — it was thrilling to know that Crowley trusted himself to be held like this.</p><p>Aziraphale had just gotten Crowley’s shirt untucked when Crowley spun them, pressing Aziraphale into the wall with surprising ferocity and licking his way down Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale let himself live in that moment: Crowley’s tongue sparking heat down his spine and into his groin. He ran his hands up under Crowley’s shirt, slowly, waiting for a response; he got one in the groan Crowley made, leaning into his touch. He could feel the sound hummed against the tender skin of his neck, which sent another rush of liquid hot desire down through his thighs.</p><p>Aziraphale had been thoroughly enjoying the feel of Crowley’s skin under his hands, but he was also <em>blazing</em> inside his trousers, and if Crowley was amenable he was absolutely interested in moving this to the bed he had glimpsed earlier. He let Crowley press him into the wall, applying his mouth to that delicate curve working up Crowley’s neck, and hooked his fingers into the waist of Crowley’s denims, tugging his lithe body even closer.</p><p>To his surprise, he sensed the slightest bit of reluctance from Crowley — the way he stiffened, for a moment, maybe just the blink of an eye but it was certainly enough for Aziraphale. He dragged the backs of his fingers back up over Crowley’s torso, beneath his shirt, and let his knuckles tease at Crowley’s nipples again. Aziraphale absolutely lost himself in Crowley’s skin and Crowley’s kisses — the way Crowley was pressing him into the wall; the urgency of the noises coming out his throat.</p><p>But then Crowley’s fingers ended up trailing down to Aziraphale’s arse — he made a very enthusiastic noise and shimmied a bit so that Crowley had the best sort of grip — and he tried to respond in kind, wrapping his big hands around Crowley’s slender hips, his thumbs rubbing along the creases between Crowley’s thigh and groin, reveling in the noise Crowley made– before he pulled away.</p><p>Aziraphale sighed, still kissing his way down Crowley’s neck. “My darling,” he said, “please feel free to tell these hands no, but I may need you to set boundaries in a second, because I admit I want…” He sucked a bruise into the skin beneath Crowley’s ear and enjoyed the noise. “I want too much, maybe.”</p><p>“No,” Crowley gasped, and pulled back for a second. The look on his face was a mess: incredibly turned on, deathly serious, and weirdly nervous. “I mean, yes. I just mean, um.” Aziraphale watched Crowley swallow, the lean lines of his throat starkly outlined. “Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “I’m trans.”</p><p>Well. Aziraphale leaned forward to press another deep kiss into Crowley’s pulse point. “And?” He murmured into Crowley’s skin, grazing his teeth against the tension there.</p><p>“And?” Crowley said, his voice going high — but his hand was at the back of Aziraphale’s head, as if he were afraid Aziraphale might leave. “You’re kidding, right? You’re gay as the day is long, and I’m not really into surgery, as it goes.”</p><p>“And?” Aziraphale repeated. He tugged at the collar of Crowley’s shirt so that he could lick at the long line of Crowley’s shoulder. “I still want to pleasure you <em>blind,</em> Crowley.”</p><p>Crowley’s entire body shuddered. “Aziraphale,” he said, and Aziraphale had to leave the delicious curve of Crowley’s skin to look him in the eye.</p><p>“Crowley,” he said, very slowly and deliberately. “If I have given you any reason to think that I am not, as the kids say, <em>totally gay for you,</em> tell me now, so that I can correct your perception permanently.”</p><p>“I,” Crowley spluttered. “Ngk. What? They don’t say — Aziraphale, I can’t decide what I’m madder about,” he finished, and grabbed both sides of Aziraphale’s face to kiss him hungry and stupid.</p><p>“It’s your bed,” Aziraphale breathed against his mouth, “but can I direct you there anyway?”</p><p>Crowley’s eyes were wide, copper-gold with pupils blown, and he stammered his way through every consonant in the alphabet before managing to say, “Yes, angel, please, <em>yes.</em>”</p><p>With that, Aziraphale bent slightly to heft Crowley up in his arms and kissed him thoroughly before turning his attention to walking. Crowley whimpered and squirmed in his arms, looping his own around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and laying searing kisses along the side of his throat. The man made full use of his wily fingers to untie his bow tie and unbutton Aziraphale’s shirt as far as he could manage underneath the sweater vest, and Aziraphale only barely bit back breathy moans when he sucked and bit marks underneath his collar.</p><p>It took a few goes at it, but Aziraphale managed to turn them into Crowley's room, heading towards a big, glorious bed all in black and charcoal grey looking ungodly comfortable. He let Crowley fall from his arms onto the bed and the way the man splayed out, gangly and limbs everywhere, his hair a ruffled mess, made Aziraphale’s heart pound faster.</p><p>"Oh my dear," he whispered reverently, and knelt beside the bed, smiling at the strangled noise Crowley made.</p><p>"My dear," he said again, "I want to make you come undone. I want to feel you fall apart on my hands and mouth… would you like that?"</p><p>Crowley groaned and fell back into the bed, his legs flopping down as well from where he'd been half propped up from where he'd landed. "<em>Fuck</em>, ange! You can't just say that!"</p><p>Aziraphale hummed and his fingers unbuttoned Crowley's trousers. "Yes, maybe not, but would you?"</p><p>The Frenchman hissed and lifted his hips to let Aziraphale pull the clothing from him, leaving him clad in silken, boxer briefs half soaked through and darker than black in the center because of it. Aziraphale gripped at Crowley's thighs and rubbed his thumbs over the tense muscles high up, teasing at the hems of his pants.</p><p>"Yes, yes, Aziraphale! Fuck, please, fuck me!" Crowley pleaded, his hips undulating for more of Aziraphale’s touch. The honesty of it delighted Aziraphale, the unhidden <em>want </em>in Crowley's voice and in his body; Crowley’s enthusiastic desire for Aziraphale was enough to make him shudder, feeling arousal down to his toes.</p><p>"You know, one thing I like about this sort of anatomy," Aziraphale murmured, kissing up Crowley's leg from knee to thigh and then stopping just short of the wettest area of the pants. "Is the lack of a refractory period."</p><p>And without another word, Aziraphale laid his tongue flat over Crowley and delighted in the sounds he made and how he squirmed in Aziraphale’s hands. The fabric was thin and fine enough that it was almost like it wasn't there at all; Aziraphale could feel with his lips and tongue every part of Crowley and couldn't help the grin on his face when he found the peaked flesh just near the top that made Crowley arch violently off the bed and quake.</p><p>"There we are, my dear." Aziraphale purred, stripping Crowley of his pants entirely and moving to kneel up on the bed to paw at his shirt too.</p><p>"You first," Crowley grumbled accusatory, "Not gon' get fucked 'f yer all clothed." Aziraphale laughed, happier than he'd been in what felt like a very long time, just enjoying the feel of Crowley and the heat of his thighs outside Aziraphale’s own.</p><p>"Oh no, my dear, you must say if it's too much, but I think I'd like to show you just how attractive I find you. Multiple times tonight, in fact." Aziraphale didn't remove any of his clothing just yet; there was more time for all of that once he'd impressed upon Crowley just how lovely he was.</p><p>Aziraphale helped Crowley move up along the bed and laid a pillow underneath his hips to cant them up. The man was a masterpiece, and he made sure to tell him so between kisses along his neck and down his chest. It didn't seem like his attentions there were particularly notable so he moved back up to sucking on skin until it bruised over Crowley’s collarbone and praised Crowley's form with fingers over his clit and inside him. Crowley arched underneath him with loud moans and Aziraphale wondered how long Crowley would allow him this. His penchant for keeping lovers here, holding them in the precipice and pushing them over again and again until they were begging him to stop, was by far his preference, more so than the actual, presumed end goal itself most days. The fire in his veins and how it gathered to smolder in his hips and pulse through him was something he liked to savour like the richest of wines.</p><p>He tangled his hand in Crowley's hair and didn't let the man's orgasm stop him, not when he made such beautiful sounds and babbled in French between hitching breaths; Aziraphale continued with the heel of his palm rocking up and curling his fingers with every thrust in as he told Crowley of all the things he'd like to do to him, described his beautifully he came apart under him, and kissed and left his marks along his neck and shoulders.</p><p>When Crowley started to tremble in earnest, Aziraphale let go of his hair, kissed him for just long enough to give the poor dear a bit of a break, and then happily moved down to pull Crowley's legs over his shoulders and thighs up around his ears.</p><p>He had lost count, lost track, lost everything except the noises Crowley had been making above him and around him; he was aching with need but all of that was secondary to the feeling of his tongue on Crowley, his fingers working deep inside. It was glorious, and he was so pleasantly distracted that it took him a minute or two to realize Crowley was attempting to tug at his hair with weak, limp hands.</p><p>Aziraphale lifted his head to look up. Lord, Crowley was a vision: gleaming with sweat, red flush spread all the way down his chest, one arm flung over his face. He was heaving breaths, and Aziraphale pressed several wet kisses to the line where Crowley’s thigh met his hips, and then to that sharp hip bone. “Yes, my dear?”</p><p>“Angel,” Crowley said, as if he were gasping the words out after running a marathon. “You’re going to break me in half.”</p><p>“I’m just getting started,” Aziraphale promised, laving desperate kisses along the line of Crowley’s bottom rib. “My darling, I’m going to spoil you rotten.”</p><p>“Consider me spoiled,” Crowley breathed. “Please, angel. Fuck me already?”</p><p>Aziraphale chuckled, moving back down to press a light kiss against Crowley’s clit. “I’m fairly sure I’ve been doing that for quite some while.”</p><p>Crowley breathed a laugh. “I know,” he said, and swallowed hard, another ragged breath sounding between them. “But I want…”</p><p>“Anything,” Aziraphale said hastily. “Anything you want.”</p><p>“I want you inside me,” Crowley whispered, like a ghost. His hands came back up to tug Aziraphale up that lithe body. “Please, angel. It’s been a long time since–” He didn’t finish the sentence, and he didn’t have to.</p><p>Aziraphale had been riding the low tidal wave of arousal this entire time, enjoying bringing Crowley to orgasm over and over, but at Crowley’s urgent request he felt that tide beginning to come in, desire lapping at the edges of his awareness. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“Please,” Crowley whined, reaching out to bring Aziraphale down for a desperate kiss. “God, please.” He waved a hand at his bedside table. “Stuff’s in there.”</p><p>Aziraphale couldn’t resist that voice. He fumbled through the drawer until he found a condom, tearing it open and drawing it onto himself slowly. Oh, he was hard, hot with desire, and the thought of feeling Crowley’s slick heat and hearing his noises — he found his hand was shaking, desperate, wanting.</p><p>“My dear,” he murmured into Crowley’s mouth, kissing him as Crowley’s hands landed on his hips to eagerly draw him in. “Darling.” Crowley’s fingers clenched into his flesh as Aziraphale slid inside him slowly. God, Crowley’s slick flesh was already quivering around him as Aziraphale drove home, until the full length of his cock was buried inside that tight heat.</p><p>“Fuck,” Crowley groaned. “God, fuck, angel.” He moved his hips below Aziraphale, wrapping his legs up around and tugging him in even deeper. Aziraphale answered with a groan and a thrust that had him seeing stars.</p><p>It felt <em>incredible.</em> It felt like coming <em>home.</em> All of a sudden, all the desire he’d been manifesting through Crowley rushed into his veins like liquid heat. His hips were already working, long deep strokes that had Crowley already gasping, head thrown back. Aziraphale couldn’t help but bend to suck another bruise into his neck, thrusting into Crowley’s slick heat as if he had no mind for anything else.</p><p>“Harder,” Crowley growled in his ear, and Aziraphale exhaled a deep approving groan into his shoulder as he started to work; Crowley’s legs shifted around his hips, and Aziraphale heard that sharp whine in the back of Crowley’s throat that meant he was close.</p><p>Aziraphale was pounding into him, now, his own breath coming hard as he hissed, “Come with me. Darling.”</p><p>Crowley’s whine built into what could only be called a shriek as his entire body started to shudder beneath Aziraphale, his hands tightening around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and this time Aziraphale gave in: one, two last thrusts and he was spilling himself, his own arms tugging Crowley so close all he could hear was the Frenchman’s breathing as his vision went white.</p>
<hr/><p>Aziraphale woke up the next morning surrounded by familiarity and unfamiliarity. The scent of Crowley filled his nostrils, which made him feel immediately safe, and yet this wasn’t his hotel. The languid remains of pleasure reminded him, and he slowly let himself awaken, tuned to the man clutched in his arms.</p><p>Crowley’s hair was a brilliant sunset strewn across the pillow behind him, with his head tucked down towards Aziraphale’s chest. His hands were clutched between them, and his leg was tucked between Aziraphale’s, and it felt so comfortably lovely that he was incredibly reluctant to move.</p><p>Yet he was hungry, and loathe to go wander Crowley’s home while the other man slept. “Crowley?” he murmured, gentle enough to not disturb a deep sleep.</p><p>Crowley mumbled something into the pillow, then went into a stretch that reminded Aziraphale of a cat, self-satisfied and self-involved. “Mmmmmmf’ngel,” he managed to get out. “Can’t feel m’legs.”</p><p>“Do you mind if I get up?” Aziraphale followed this with a kiss to Crowley’s brow, and Crowley very lazily kissed his chest.</p><p>“G’head,” he mumbled again, and Aziraphale pulled away with one last kiss to Crowley’s sleepy lips.</p><p>He made his way into the kitchen, starting the kettle for some tea and, remembering that Crowley’s preference was for coffee, started to scrounge around the cupboards. Crowley’s kitchen was an endearing example of an organized mess; everything was sorted, but in some sort of system Aziraphale had no chance of deciphering. He found coffee in the cabinet with the spices, and filters alongside tins of soup.</p><p>Aziraphale threw together some beans and toast while the kettle boiled, and scrounged up a tray from the living room that Crowley had used last night, while the coffee percolated on the stove next to the kettle. He wasn't sure if the man took sugar or cream in it, but some dusty, unused trappings of a mismatched tea set were located in his cupboards and in went sugar and milk once they were cleaned.</p><p>The whole place spoke of bachelorhood, which Aziraphale himself was rather accustomed to, while in nearly the opposite direction; while he disliked the thought of Crowley being <em>lonely</em>, he was pleased there was room for him in Crowley's life like this.</p><p>But then, of course, falling into bed didn't a relationship make; nor did their opposite sides, as it were, lend a hand to it. Aziraphale added everything to the tray and took it up to the bedroom with a sigh. The domesticity was something he hadn't realized he craved so much until just this morning, when it came so easily to him; perhaps that wasn't in the cards for them, but for now, he could enjoy it.</p><p>"Bon appetit." Aziraphale set the tray on an end table rather than try to pull out its feet and topple anything, and kissed Crowley's cheek, only to smile brightly at the grumble and grin in return from the man.</p><p>"Mornin', 'Ziraphale." Crowley yawned and sat up with a groan, blindly reaching for his coffee and drinking it black, hissing at the heat of it. "S' zat the only French you know?" He smirked lopsidedly and Aziraphale dreaded the swooping feeling of his heart leaving his chest.</p><p>"Don't you make fun of me, you wicked man." Aziraphale sniffed, and did his damndest to hide the besotted smile twitching at his lips. "But yes. It is."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Pls see our terrible outline and know that as much as this seems like a legitimate fic, we are entirely illegitimate, feral writers, and pls put us back where you found us so we can live in our natural habitat with the gin fairy.</p><p> </p><p>  </p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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